


#01-386-92-15 “Victor”

by MissNaya



Series: S I N [3]
Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Exhibitionism, Flashbacks, Gunshot Wounds, Guro, M/M, Skinning, Small Penis, Vivisection, Wound Fucking, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Who knew that a shitty old birthday present could turn out to be so much fun?
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Series: S I N [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844974
Kudos: 22





	#01-386-92-15 “Victor”

**Author's Note:**

> here's another installment in my guroverse series! we're learning more about several characters' backstories in this one, as well as the world itself.
> 
> and there's some nasty gore sex. it's me, okay, what do you expect from me?
> 
> have fun!

It’s a shitty present, that’s for sure.

The lanky slave with dark, baggy eyes and blond hair that looks light enough to be bleached certainly doesn’t _look_ like anything special. Definitely not the kind of gift Roman would expect for his 21st birthday. He stares at his parents for an explanation, arms crossed, tapping his foot. When they don’t give him one, he finally speaks up.

“Seriously? Where’d you find this one, a dumpster? The mince meat pile?” He sneers, regarding the slave with a critical, almost disgusted glare. “You couldn’t even get me one with muscle? It looks like a fucking drug addict.”

“Now, honey,” his mother says, but Roman just rolls his eyes and turns to his father.

“All my friends got big parties when they turned 21. Tommy got _twenty-one_ new slaves, _and_ a yacht, _and_ his own bar.”

“I already gave you some shares in the company,” his father says, in that same measured yet stern voice he always uses when he’s about to tell Roman something he doesn’t want to hear. “We have three fully-stocked bars in the house alone.”

“I _told you_ I wanted a _club,_ ” Roman huffs, stomping a foot into the expensive patterned rug his folks got from Egypt or some bullshit, dirty country like that. “Not some fucking useless slave!”

“You haven’t even tried him yet,” his mother says. She puts a hand on the slave’s shoulder and shoves it forward, and it walks a step or two closer. The entire time, the entire conversation, all it’s been doing is staring with creepy, dark eyes. “Your father says this one’s special. That you’ll like him.”

Roman sniffs derisively. He once again looks the slave up and down, searching for any redeeming qualities. Average looks. Stupid-looking expression. Pale as if it’s never seen a day of sun in its life. And, to top it all off, a tiny cock.

“What’s so special about it?” he asks, walking around it, trying to see if the back is any more appealing than the front. The slave’s got a nice ass, he’ll give it that, but he doubts that’s what his father means by “special.”

“Well,” his father starts, “I know you have a fondness for… unusual cases.”

It’s true. Roman isn’t a fan of most slaves, not as they’re mandated to be by the increasingly bleeding-heart government. All pumped full of the injections that turn pain into pleasure, more “humane,” as if slaves are even human in the first place. It’s unnatural and disgusting.

And, as the heir to the Janus Meat Processing empire, Roman has been around a lot of exactly that brand of livestock. Walking through the plant with rows of slaves in pens on each side, listening to the whirring of mechanical saws and knives that cut them to pieces with precision. Listening to them _moan_ about it like porn stars.

Roman prefers the ones in the basement — the basement that doesn’t exist on any official blueprints. The one where all the “tough cases” go. Defiant or runaway slaves in need of an attitude adjustment, all chained up like the pigs they are, the way it should be. Deprived of their injections, left to feel pain the way they should.

He spends a lot of time down there, but he’s never seen this slave before. It must be new. Must be some special brand of troublesome, if his bastard father is shoving it off on him.

“What’s unusual about it?” he asks. “Because right now, it just looks unusually fucking stupid.”

His father sighs, then looks to his mother. He lays a hand on her shoulder. “Honey, could you give us a minute? I need to talk to our son, man-to-man.”

Flashing one last smile (too wide, too tight, too fake), his mother turns and walks out of the room, leaving Roman alone with his father and the defective slave.

“Roman,” his father says, approaching him with his hands in his pockets. “I know you have a… special relationship with some of our slaves. You have a way with them.”

The praise is rare, which is probably why it glues Roman to the spot. He raises an eyebrow, silently urging his father to go on.

“Now, I don’t interfere with what you do down there,” he continues. “I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. But I know you get results, and I know you like other people to see those results. If you can turn this one around, the optics for our family will be—”

Immediately, Roman rolls his eyes and turns away. “That’s it. Of course that’s it. You just want me to make _you_ look good. What, you get this thing at an auction for defectives and wanna show all your golf buddies how good you are at training? As if you need me to do that.”

“No, Roman, _listen_ to me.” His father’s voice is more grave this time, more serious than Roman has heard him in a while. He listens, but doesn’t turn back. “You like a challenge, don’t you? Then keep this one from the incinerator.”

Roman’s brow furrows. “The incinerator? What the fuck did it do?”

“Killed 7 people.”

Okay. _That_ gets Roman to turn and face his father.

“What?”

His father’s face shows no sign that he’s joking. Between them, the slave just keeps staring. Keeps fucking watching with those dark eyes, always on Roman. It almost sends a shiver down his spine. Knowing why it’s here makes it even eerier.

“Possibly more. We lost track of it for a while, had some trouble getting it back,” his father says. “The authorities wanted to take it right to the Decommissioning Center, but lord knows the scandal that would cause, knowing a Janus slave killed humans. We don’t need the PR disaster, do you understand me, Roman?”

Roman prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, eyes narrowed. “So that’s what this is. My birthday present is a fucking homework assignment. Wanna tell me why you couldn’t just throw this one in the basement with the rest of them?”

“They’re keeping too close an eye on us,” his father says. He steps forward, around the ever-staring slave, and places a heavy hand on Roman’s shoulder. “I paid enough hush money for now, but we need results, or they’ll take it back and it’ll be on record why we had a slave decommissioned. You want to take over the business someday, don’t you, son?”

Roman chews at his lip, resisting the urge to shove his father’s hand off. He wants to, badly. Wants to tell his father exactly where he can shove his stab-happy slave. But he nods, because it’s true. All he wants is to pry this company from his father’s chubby, disgusting hands.

“These are the things you’ll need to think about when you’re on top.” His father gives his shoulder a squeeze, then lets his hand fall back to his side. It’s about as much affection as Roman could hope for. “Just work your magic, Roman, I know you can. Get it well-behaved in three months, and I’ll buy you a club, how about that?”

Ah, fuck. The old bastard knows exactly how to put his balls in a vice grip. Roman weighs the merits of saving his allowance until he can afford a club himself, but quickly scraps that idea. No fucking way.

It’s one slave. Just one errant slave with something wrong in its head, something that makes it think it can do things like kill humans without consequence. Roman’s never had a problem training undesirable traits out of wayward slaves before. How hard could this one be?

With a sigh and yet another eye roll, he gives in. “Fine. But I want a good one, not some shitty dive bar in a slum.”

“Yes, yes,” his father says, in that way he always does when he inevitably gives in. “Whatever you want, Roman. Just get it done.”

Roman gets another too-hard pat on his shoulder for his efforts, then his father turns and leaves through the same door his mother left through.

And now he’s alone with the slave. Great. No time like the present to start training, he guesses.

Linking his hands behind his back, Roman walks in a wide circle around the slave. All it’s wearing is a standard Janus-brand collar. There’s nowhere it could hide a weapon, which Roman assumes it used to kill all those people, since it certainly doesn’t look like much of a physical fighter. He’s not scared, though he is cautious.

The slave doesn’t move, though. Hasn’t moved anything but its eyes since it was paraded out in front of Roman. He has to wonder if it’s just stupid, the way it hardly reacts to anything that happens around it.

“Hey.” Roman wrinkles his nose and looks down into those near-black eyes, refusing to let himself be unsettled. “You got a name?”

“Victor.”

Its voice is low, gruff, almost slurred, from what he can hear.

“Victor. So, you really killed seven people?”

“Eighteen.”

“What?”

The slave blinks. “It was eighteen.”

For a second, Roman just stares at it, trying to figure out if this is some kind of power-play. If it is, he certainly won’t entertain it. But there’s something eerily sincere about the slave’s dark eyes.

“You keep count?” he asks.

“Every one.” The slave — Victor — lulls its head back, eyes rolling up toward the ceiling as if in heavy thought. There’s something bizarre about the motion, about as bizarre as everything else about the thing. “One, two, three on the boat, four, five on shore, six-seven-eight-nine at home by the fire, ten was all alone…”

He keeps talking, muttering like he doesn’t even care if Roman’s there or not. As if its bizarre counting ritual is something so deeply personal that it doesn’t care if it gets in trouble for speaking out of turn.

And why would it? It already killed all those people. Clearly, this thing isn’t afraid of reprimands.

Roman listens all the way to eighteen (“ _...and your dad’s pretty guard before they blew my brains out.”_ ), mouth screwed into a thin, unimpressed line. He doesn’t intend to let this slave think it’s top dog just because it put down a few unlucky humans.

But _eighteen_ human lives. That’s a lot, for some feral mutt. That instinct isn’t something that you just train away, like disobedience or bad cock-sucking skills.

He should know. It’s an instinct he’s lived with his entire life.

Maybe that, that similarity, is why he begrudgingly steels himself to deal with the task at hand. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t throw it into the industrial meat grinder and be done with it.

Maybe that’s why, fifteen years later, he still owns Victor.

He stirs a cube of sugar into his morning tea as Victor sucks his cock beneath the table. The penthouse is full of warm light, illuminating the decorative masks and slaves he has artfully arranged around the place. In front of the dining table, the TV drones on.

“ _I tried Nopan after my accident. I was just looking for some relief. I thought it would take away my pain, but it did the opposite. I lost my job. My wife. My kids. And the hurt never stops. Not from the accident. Not from the addiction._ ”

A solemn-faced man stares directly into the camera, all black and white. Red words bleed in over him as a stern voice narrates.

“ _Nopaninol addiction takes over 200 human lives a day. Anocicaine is a drug intended for use by regenerative servants only. Side-effects if injected by a human can induce intense pain, lifelong addiction, loss of senses, and death._

 _For prescription pain relief, contact your doctor for FDA-approved human-safe methods. You are not alone. Call our hotline at 1-800-NO-PAIN-1, and our staff of trained professionals will guide you through the steps to take your life back._ ”

Stupid fucking commercial. Roman reaches for the remote as a naked woman wearing nothing but a pair of glasses, high heels, and a collar with his initials on it walks into the room. He watches her reflection in the black of the TV as she comes to a stop next to him.

Feels the stinging bite of Victor’s teeth, just barely there, when Roman takes his time to look the slave up and down.

“What’s on the agenda this morning, Li?” he asks.

“The Cobblepots’ gala is this weekend, so your tailor will need to meet with you to discuss the alterations to your outfit,” she says. Unlike so many others, Li is all business all the time; she’s allowed to carry a pen and tablet, which she makes marks on as she goes through Roman’s daily schedule. “The board meeting has been rescheduled from 2 to 3 to account for your extended spa treatment.”

“Ah, cancel it,” Roman decides on the fly, flicking a hand out dismissively as he takes a sip of his tea. He flinches at the heat, and it makes him jerk his hips, bucking at an awkward angle into Victor’s mouth. “ _Ow,_ fuck— Watch your _teeth,_ goddamnit!”

He slams his glass down on the saucer so indignantly it very nearly spills over, all the other utensils around it clinking. Victor smooths his tongue over the head of his cock in apology. Li doesn’t blink.

“Canceled. Aside from that, the only other meeting you have today is with your boys downtown.” Downtown, their usual code word for Crime Alley. “Shall I cancel that, too, Master?”

Roman hums in thought as Victor hums around his cock. “Mmm… No. We’re making important headway with the— nngh. The Wilson contract…”

“Of course. I’ll make sure to remind everyone,” Li says, tucking her pen back behind her ear and her tablet under her arm. “Is there anything else you need from me, Sir?”

Roman’s already tuning her out. Waving one hand, he shoves Victor’s head down further into his lap with the other. “That’s all. Go.”

Li nods. “Enjoy your breakfast, Master.”

Roman watches her go and fucks Victor’s face.

The rest of the day goes by in a pleasant sort of blur. With nights spent running his club, he likes his daytime hours to be as soothing as possible, when he’s awake for them. Massages. Fine dining. Victor at his feet, there to take his cock whenever he’s in the mood. It’s what he deserves, honestly. A stress-free, painless life.

Which is why, when he comes out of his late meeting to see his Rolls tilted to the side, two tires completely missing, he gets a little annoyed.

“-- _Fuck!_ You have to be fucking kidding me!”

His voice echoes through the dark, narrow alleyway as his men spill out of the door behind him. But that’s not the only sound. There’s another, a metallic clatter, and Roman looks over just in time to see a kid straightening up from the other side of the car, grease on his face, hair all mussed up. A discarded tire iron rolls across the pavement as he backs up, face to face with about ten-odd masked gangsters all flanking Roman.

Beside him, Victor smiles.

Roman tells them all, “Fetch.”

The kid moves fast. Hopping over the hood of the car, he vaults and slides between one henchman’s spread legs, racing for the end of the alley. Roman shouts, “Go, don’t let that little fucker get away!” behind them, as heavy footfalls sprint to catch up with the thief.

They disappear around a corner, and Roman doesn’t bother to follow. He just waits until he hears the gunshot and resulting scream, then waits for his boys to drag the kid back, like good hunting dogs bringing over a felled goose or rabbit.

By the time they’re back, Roman has already fixed his hair in a pocket mirror. He slams it shut as his men deposit the boy at his feet. One leg of his jeans is already soaked through with blood, and it’s all the kid can do to hold himself up on his hands, gritting his teeth and sweating in front of Roman.

Slowly, while the kid is watching, Roman fishes around in an inside suit pocket for something. He pulls out a knife, which he unfolds just as unhurriedly. He doesn’t need to worry about cops showing up; a gunshot in Crime Alley is like thunder during a storm. Nothing that anyone thinks twice about.

Pressing the flat of the blade under the boy’s chin, he tilts his face upward.

“You should’ve picked a different car,” he says, voice low and deliberate.

“Yeah, no kidding,” the boy huffs.

Ah. An attitude already, even with a bullet in his leg. This one should be fun.

“Why don’t you make this easy on yourself?” Roman asks. “Tell me where you put my tires, and you’ll live to see tomorrow. ‘Kay?”

The boy glares up at him, somehow managing to look defiant despite the way his cheeks have gone pale. They meet each other’s eyes — Roman’s shining behind the mask he’s still wearing — and, for a second, it seems like he might be about to protest. Then something changes behind his expression, and he sets his jaw.

“...Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He makes the kid show his men where the tires are. Has them drag him all the way back to whatever shithole he squats at, limping and trailing blood that’ll be washed away like a bad memory the next time one of Gotham’s frequent storms spills open over the city. Then he makes him, cringing and groaning in pain, kneel next to the car and shakily put the tires back on.

Honestly, Roman’s impressed when he gets the job done. He expected the kid to pass out from blood loss halfway through the first tire. For an un-tourniqueted wound, he’s holding up surprisingly well.

“Okay,” the kid says once the last bolt is screwed in tight. He turns and looks up at his captors, then carefully pulls himself up onto his feet. The one drenched in blood hovers an inch or two off the ground as he balances himself using the car. “...Okay, I’m done. Can I— Can I go to the hospital now…?”

Roman opens his mouth to answer.

Victor beats him to it.

“He stopped bleeding.”

It’s soft, that slurred murmur Roman’s come to get used to after all these years. He and his men all turn, Roman lifting a brow.

“Victor? I don’t recall giving you permission to speak.”

“He stopped bleeding, boss,” Victor insists, hands behind his back, still assuming the perfect posture of a good slave. The kind of slave who doesn’t normally do this kind of thing. “A while ago. I think you should check his leg.”

The kid gets visibly uncertain. Roman notices the way he fidgets, shrinking in on himself next to the car, the imbalance in his legs suddenly much more pronounced. With an overblown wince and limp, he takes a step back.

“Please, I— I don’t feel so good. I promise I won’t tell anyone what happened, j-just let me get outta here and I—”

Roman holds up a hand to silence him. Then he flicks his wrist, swirling his finger, and two large men flank the boy. As soon as they get close, the boy turns into a wild animal, punching and kicking, flailing out when the largest muscle Roman has available grabs him by the waist and hoists him into the air. It takes a few solid blows to the head before he starts to submit, and even then, they need three men to hold him down and rip his sodden pants away from his leg.

No bullet hole.

They check five times, wipe the blood away and run their hands all over the kid’s bare leg, poking and prodding and scrutinizing. There’s nothing.

“A runaway, eh?”

Roman is grinning behind his mask. He’s sure the kid can see it in the shine in his eyes.

“No— No, I— I’m not, I— I can explain—”

“Explain what?” Roman asks. “How my boys shot you a few minutes ago, and now you’re peachy keen? How does that happen, hmm? Why don’t you tell me.”

“I… I…” The kid looks between Roman and the other men, clearly searching for some way out of the situation. But, pinned against the car by three burly men, there’s nowhere for him to go. Nothing for him to do except run his mouth. “I can work for you. I’m real fast, real quiet, you saw what I can do. I’ll run errands, do your chores, I—” He gulps. “...Just don’t report me. _Please._ ”

“Oh,” Roman says, reaching out to run gloved fingers through the boy — the _immortal’s_ — hair. “Don’t worry about that. I wouldn’t _dream_ of handing you off to some shelter.”

The errant slave lets out a breath, but still looks wary. “Then… you’ll let me go…?”

Roman laughs. “Oh, I didn’t say _that._ ”

“...No. No, no—” Struggling, jerking against the hold on his limbs, the kid tries to get away, but, wiggly as he is, this time he can’t break free. He’s been beaten. They all know that. It’s just a matter, now, of getting him to understand it’s permanent. “No! No! Let me _go,_ let me go, no, _no—!_ ”

“Victor.”

Victor turns and grins at Roman, all teeth.

“Yes, boss?”

“Shut that thing up, will you?”

“You got it, boss.”

Their fingers brush against each other as Roman passes Victor the knife. Victor steps forward, unhurried, whistling a little tune. He winds his fingers in the kid’s hair and yanks his head back, but before he can go farther, Roman stops him.

“Hold on.” Wide blue eyes meet his, pleading, searching for mercy. They find none as Roman asks, “You got a name?”

“...Jason,” the slave says.

“Jason.” Roman nods to Victor. “Just relax. We’ll all be home in no time.”

“Sleep tight,” Victor says softly, inches from Jason’s lips.

Then he slams the knife up into the soft spot just behind Jason’s ear. Jason jerks, then goes limp in their arms; Victor knows exactly where to strike the brain to knock even an immortal out cold for a while.

Roman wrinkles his lip as Victor pulls the bloodied knife out slowly. Taking a step back, he frowns at the new trail of blood leaking down from Jason’s head.

“Ew. Throw him in the trunk, don’t get blood on my seats.” He looks up to catch Victor staring, imploring him with just his expression for… something. Something like… oh. Roman smiles. “Go ahead, baby.”

Grinning like a kid about to lick brownie batter off a spoon, Victor says a quick “Thanks, boss,” and drags his tongue over the flat of the blade. It’s sharp enough that Roman can see Victor’s skin split, too, even with the blade on its side like that. He shudders; it’s not that he has a weak stomach, but Victor’s pain tolerance is so visceral, sometimes, even now.

But those little moans he makes when the knife catches his skin, they make everything more than worth it.

“Baby.”

Roman coos, cupping Victor’s cheeks.

“You did so good today. Do you want a reward?”

Victor nods, as eager for it now as he was 15 years ago. Roman smiles and kisses him, quick, but not entirely chaste; teeth finding Victor’s lower lip on the drawback, he bites just hard enough to call a bead of blood to the surface.

“Catching Daddy a new slave, and such a cute one, too… Oh, don’t get jealous already.” He flicks Victor’s nose to try and banish the frown from his face. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Pathetic and desperate.”

Victor’s grin returns, crooked and scruffy. “Always.”

If Victor only knew how dangerously adorable he was. If only he knew the power he had, despite being a slave. Roman doubts there’s much of anything going on inside that addled mind of his, but that’s alright. He doesn’t need a super-genius slave to be satisfied. Prefers one a bit on the dumber side, actually.

It’s just one of the many reasons why Victor is perfect.

Sure, it took Roman a while to see it. A lot of long nights. Lot of hard work. But here, now, staring down at Victor’s bare body (with the exception of his _RSB-_ branded spiked collar), it’s easy to understand.

Victor’s body isn’t… _entirely_ bare, though. Crisscrossed over his torso are a few lines of stitching, little Xs made out of a thick black thread. The only sort of permanent marking they can get to stay on a body like Victor’s.

And each one of those little Xs, every single stitch, they have a meaning. Roman embroidered them all into Victor, one for every life he’s taken. Nothing for Jason, who should be waking up in the basement of the processing plant right about now. Only human lives are mapped out on his perfect, beautiful, intricately-decorated slave.

He wants to see more. Backing away until his knees strike the mattress, Roman takes a seat on his four-poster bed, sitting back on his hands. Obediently, Victor stays where he is, hands behind his back, something dark in his eyes. Hungry.

“Take it off,” Roman says, and Victor sucks in a shuddering little breath.

“Anything you say, boss.” He moves his arms from behind his back, still holding onto the knife from earlier. Unfolding it, he breathlessly repeats, “Anything you say…”

He starts at his collarbone. Dragging it down, Victor splits himself down the middle with practiced precision, not too shallow, not too deep. A few seams split, black thread fraying in the center, but that’s fine. Roman’s had to re-stitch him more times than he can count. Victor has his mental count, and Roman takes care of the physical.

When Victor gets to the space just above his cock, he stops cutting. Dropping the knife on tiled floor — easy to clean later — his fingers slip under the skin to peel it back. He does it with sweat on his brow and a flush over his cheeks, panting with the effort it takes to cut himself open.

Between his legs, his tiny cock stands at attention, already covered in blood.

“Yeah,” Roman says, tongue poking out between his lips. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Victor stands there with his flayed body spread wide, open and real and _raw_ for Roman to look at. It’s a sight he’s seen plenty of times, but it never ceases to turn him on, the slimy organs all throbbing inside his open chest cavity. Victor’s so good at cutting himself open like this by now that he doesn’t even nick the membrane keeping all his intestines from slipping out onto the floor; they sit, compact and glistening, in his stomach cavity, pink and bare for Roman’s greedy eyes to rake over.

“Whaddya want?” Victor asks. His voice is strained with the effort it takes him not to fall apart under the waves of pleasure he’s doubtless feeling by now.

“C’mere.”

Roman nods, and Victor comes to stand a few steps closer. Reaching out, Roman’s hands find Victor’s thighs, rubbing them up and down. He looks at Victor like a painting, like a sculpture, art that he can take and mold and ruin however he wants.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Victor,” he murmurs, thumbs rubbing little circles into Victor’s hip bones. “Now, keep going. Do it slow.”

He’s not sure why he wants Victor like this tonight. The actual sight of a skinned body isn’t the most pleasant thing. But there’s something so _honest_ about seeing what’s under someone’s skin. Past the color, past the identifying marks, past the details… Everyone looks the same when they’ve been skinned and strung up like an animal.

Victor picks the knife up and works himself over, extending the cut up over his shoulders so he can begin to roll the skin down his arms like he’s taking off a particularly stubborn jacket. Red and white lines of muscle and sinew appear bit by bit. When Victor nearly reaches his wrists, Roman stops him.

“Alright. That’s good. On your knees.”

Victor’s knees hit the tile with an ugly _thud._ Roman grabs him by the back of the head and pulls him close, his cock already out. Victor goes to take it into his mouth, but Roman holds his head back. Lets him try again, only to push his head back a second time. He does it a few times over, smirk widening every time, until he’s snickering with how desperate Victor is.

“You’re drooling,” he says. “Disgusting.”

“Want you, Master,” Victor slurs, his lips shining with spit. “Want you so bad…”

“I know, baby,” Roman says, sliding his hand down to cup Victor’s cheek. “I know. Go ahead.”

As soon as he’s given the okay, Victor dives in. His mouth is like heaven; of all the slaves he’s had, Victor is the only one who knows every bit of Roman’s body, exactly how to please him the best without being told what to do. He’s certainly had enough practice. Roman groans as Victor takes every inch deep into his throat and swallows around it.

“Good boy,” he grunts, one hand behind Victor’s head, the other scratching the raw muscle on his shoulder. Blood gets under perfectly-manicured nails, but that’s okay. He’ll have them fixed up tomorrow. Tonight, he only wants to worry about Victor, and that exquisite red body of his.

He notices movement in Victor’s shoulders, and when he looks down, he can tell he’s touching himself. His organs, that is. Running his fingers over his intestines, squeezing his liver, shoving a hand up under his ribcage. Roman tightens his fingers on Victor’s shoulder, eliciting a moan that vibrates around his cock.

“Stop that,” he says. “I want to be the one to touch you tonight.”

Victor looks up at him with pleading brown eyes, and Roman melts. It’s not often someone can get him to feel like this, much less a slave, but Victor always surprises him. Always keeps him on his toes.

He pulls Victor’s head back and heaves him up under his arm, admiring the slightly skewed way his organs sit now that they’ve been fucked with.

“On the bed.”

“Master?”

“You heard me.”

Victor lights up, scrambling to do as he’s told. It’s a rare treat, getting to sit on Roman’s bed when he’s like this. Usually, Roman hates the blood, hates having to get someone to deep clean his sheets and mattress afterward. But he’s feeling generous today. Happy that Victor didn’t let a cute runaway get away.

So he’ll be benevolent. He directs Victor to lie down on his back, already soaking everything with blood. There’s a little smile on his face, and, dare he say it, it’s adorable. Roman loves when Victor looks up at him like he’s his whole world.

“Stay there,” he instructs, going over to a wardrobe at the other end of his spacious room. It opens up to a well-stocked smorgasbord of medical and sexual equipment, everything from whips and chains to scalpels and surgical scissors. Roman grabs something large and metallic and makes his way back to the bed.

As soon as Victor sees what it is, he sits up on his elbows with an excited smile.

“Get down,” Roman tells him. “Lie still.”

Victor nods enthusiastically and does as he’s told. Shifting positions until he’s comfortable, he beams up at Roman.

Roman presses the rib spreader into the center of Victor’s chest. It takes a little bit of effort, a little bit of medical knowledge, but it isn’t long before he’s cracking Victor open like a watermelon, the sickening noise sending shocks of pleasure to Roman’s cock.

“There we go,” he mumbles, putting the spreader off to the side to watch Victor’s lungs inflate and deflate, his heart pound. “There we go…”

He can see Victor’s breath quickening. It’s always a fun sight, seeing the inner workings of someone’s body, something so private and secret. It’s intimate in a way relations with a human can never be. It’s total control, completely and entirely.

Roman loves it.

His hand fumbles for his bedside drawer, out of which he pulls another knife. He unfolds it, and Victor’s breath catches in his throat. Roman can see it in the way his lungs stop moving for a brief moment.

“Just stay like that, baby,” he says. “Stay like that…”

He reaches out to grab Victor’s heart, which beats like mad in his palm. Slowly, carefully, he sticks the knife into it, cutting a gash a few inches long into the thudding muscle. It keeps pumping even split apart, shooting pressurized blood out that soaks Roman’s shirt. He shudders, temporarily fine with the mess, because this is the horniest he’s been in a long time. He doesn’t even mind when a few pumps of blood drench one side of his face. It feels like a warm shower after a long day, soothing, refreshing.

Victor watches with intense eyes as he takes off his pants. “Master, are you gonna— Fuck—”

Roman nods. “Yeah, baby. Yeah. Don’t move.”

He gets up, legs on either side of Victor’s chest. Presses the head of his cock to the wound. Victor’s heart flutters around his cockhead, and he groans, unable to hold himself back. He pushes into the slit, spreading it wide, but it’s still nice and tight around his cock. The entire time, Victor’s heart keeps beating, an uneven rhythm, trying its best to keep up under the assault. Victor looks pale, though, circulation uneven. A few of his fingers are already turning blue at the tips.

He looks exquisite. Sounds even better, moaning low in his throat like that. Roman begins to fuck his heart with abandon, grunting and groaning, holding onto the wide headboard to keep his balance.

He won’t last long like this. Victor won’t, either, if those noises he’s making are of any indication. Roman can see his hands fisted in the sheets, trembling. He speeds up, and Victor’s heart hardly looks like a heart anymore, more like a speared piece of meat.

“Mo-ore,” Victor chokes out. His lungs spasm, his stomach lurching. “Mmm-more please, Ma-ahhh-sterrr-r-r—”

His face is going blue now, too. It’s a lovely sight to behold. His lips shining with spit, furry chin dripping with drool. Blood splattered all over from the spray that Roman’s currently plugging up with his cock. It’s too much. He can’t— hold back—

“Oh, _fuck._ Fuck, fuck, _fuck—_ ”

Roman lets out an animalistic noise as he pumps Victor’s heart full of cum, drenching him, _owning_ him from the inside out. Victor begs and pleads and encourages him, hardly able to speak, but still trying, because he’s a good boy. He’s _such_ a good boy.

Slowly, slowly, Roman comes to a stop. He breathes heavily as he pulls himself out of Victor’s ruined chest cavity, pausing to admire his handiwork. Victor’s heart no longer looks like a heart; it’s fucked open with a hole in it as wide as Roman’s thick cock. He can’t see his cum, lost in a sea of red. There’s so much blood in his chest cavity that his lungs struggle to work, and something must have been punctured, because Victor begins to cough blood all over his pale blue face.

“Disgusting,” Roman sighs, collapsing on the blood-soaked bed next to him as Victor gurgles and twitches. He turns onto his side and knocks on Victor’s temple with a closed fist a few times like he’s knocking on a door. “You in there? Get yourself cleaned up.”

It’s barely perceptible through all the twitching, but Victor nods. He might have stuttered out “Boss,” but it’s impossible to hear properly with his chest so absolutely wrecked.

That’s okay, though. Roman knows Victor will do as he’s told. He always does. He’s perfect like that.

Even lying in a pool of blood, Roman starts to drift off to sleep. It’s been a good day.

He can’t wait to get more acquainted with his new slave tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> find me [other places](https://linktr.ee/herecomesnaya)


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